Stalingrad 1942
by GasmaskedMook
Summary: Captain Mustang - foremost tank ace of the Fourth Panzer Army, haunted by the atrocities of his army and nation. Riza "Hawkeye" - the daughter of a disgraced Soviet strategist, now one of the Soviet Union's infamous snipers. In the midst of the most violent battle in mankind's history, the two engage in a deadly game of hide and seek which may turn the tide of the entire war.
1. Prologue: Kirovsk and Vienna

**Disclaimer: **This story contains strong language, violence and realistic depictions of war crimes. In some cases, the war crimes will have been committed by major characters. While many sympathetic military characters in the manga and anime are guilty of comparable crimes, I understand that it might be more difficult to read if the crimes closely resemble real life atrocities. If any of the above might be a problem, I recommend you stop reading now.

**N.B.** I have tried to make the story easy to read for those without significant knowledge of the period but I am quite fond of using foreign language terms rather than their English translations (which I feel sound clunky) so if there are any terms that you don't understand, I have added a small glossary at the bottom.

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><p>~0\~

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><p><strong>Prologue: Kirovsk and Vienna<strong>

**Kirovsk, USSR - 3rd November 1935**

The rifle discharged with a sharp crack, filling the air with the distinctive whiff of cordite. The girl's shoulder rolled slightly as the rifle bucked and her pale hands became even more so as they tightened their grip on the stock. Her father nudged the offending fingers with his own gloved hands.

"Loosen up."

The girl nodded stiffly at his admonishment and her grip lessened slightly. She was still peering through the rifle sights when her father dug out his binoculars. After a moment, he found the tiny paper target pinned to a tree six hundred yards away.

"Too high. Remember not to hold your breath too long or you'll get shaky."

The girl did not show any acknowledgement of her father's words as she flicked the spent cartridge out of the firing chamber with a practiced twist of the rifle's bolt. The greying man shot her an annoyed look and was opening his mouth when the rifle fired again with an ear-splitting crack. The man snorted slightly at the girl's impatience but dutifully raised his binoculars once more.

"More to the left and down."

The girl did not move except to work the rifle's bolt action again. The casing made a faint hiss as it fell onto the packed snow. This time she paused for a long moment before firing, the little puffs of condensation rising from beneath her scarf disappearing as she slowed her breathing. The rifle cracked again.

"Better, better."

The girl was already patting her pockets for another handful of cartridges. Her father shook his head.

"That is enough."

Her pale hand came out of her pocket, the shining brass of the rifle rounds glinting in the fading sunlight. Before she could begin loading them however, the man placed a hand over the open firing chamber.

"That is enough, Riza."

She rolled onto her side to look up at him, her brown eyes indignant for a moment. He looked back, his gaze firm. The argument died in her throat and her gaze dropped.

"All right, father."

They cleared up the makeshift nest in silence. The empty casings were picked up and the thick matt they had been lying on to protect themselves from the snow covered ground was rolled up and tucked under his arm while she took it upon herself to carry the rifle. They walked back in comfortable silence, following the retreating upper tip of the sun as it sank below the distant mountains. By the time they reached their house, the last vestiges of red were being chased from the sky by the encroaching night.

The house was a comfortable two story affair, built as a hunting lodge for a nobleman under the Tsar. While the rich furnishings and stuffed animals had been stripped of the place, it remained a welcome relief from the bitter cold. The girl's father immediately busied himself with the stove, stoking the smouldering flames with an iron poker before feeding it with thin sticks from a basket in the corner. The girl seated herself at the table and began systematically disassembling the rifle. By the time the stove was hot enough to begin cooking, she had almost finished cleaning each component with a stained rag and a can of noxious gun oil.

"Father?"

The man turned around, a heavy saucepan filled with stew in his hand.

"Yes, Riza?"

"May I read?"

He put the saucepan back on the stove and walked over to the table. After a quick inspection of the disassembled rifle, he nodded and the girl immediately stood and walked out of the kitchen. She returned a minute later with a copy of Jack London's _Iron Heel_ and an English dictionary. After a few minutes, her father sat down at the table across from her and offered her a bowl of stew. The girl ate slowly, looking up from the novel only to check a word in the dictionary. Her father watched, a frown playing at the edges of his thin mouth.

"Why are you reading it in English?"

The girl did not look up.

"All the Russian translations have to go through the censors at the Goskomizdat."

Her father's gaze darkened.

"You should be more careful about such things. I don't want to see you arrested for something as stupid as a novel."

For the first time since she had finished cleaning the rifle, her brown eyes left the page. She almost whispered her next words.

"It isn't stupid."

Her father snorted and an indignant red flush began to colour the girl's pale cheeks.

"It's stupid to me and I will probably be arrested as well for buying them for you."

The girl simply nodded, successfully fighting down her desire to argue. She knew that her father was joking in his odd way. There was no way that _he _would be arrested for something as small as foreign language books. Her father had been a prominent strategist for the military, a very valuable one. His works on armoured warfare in particular were practically standard reading in the officer academies and he could count at least two of the five Marshalls of the Soviet Union, the highest ranked generals in the entire USSR, among his personal friends. It was because of his work for them that she was able to live comfortably and read all the books she wanted, even if they were not available to the public. But at the same time, she was not blind. When they had lived in Moscow, they had constantly been followed. At first, her father had laughed it off and said it was just his superiors keeping an eye on him in case he went and got himself hurt without their permission but slowly he had become more wary of their omnipresent watchers. So he had pulled a few strings with his friends in the Army and secured himself a house in the wilds near the Finnish border. It was also that time when he had started to teach her how to shoot with rifle and pistol.

"Please, father."

The greying man stood.

"Listen, Riza."

Something in his voice made the girl look up. He sounded... exhausted. She was about to ask if anything was wrong but he cut her off.

"You need to understand... Someday, you won't be able to rely on our name to protect you. I know that you think it is harmless now but when I am gone and you are no longer under the protection of the military, who knows what might happen. The place thatman is trying to create... it is a dangerous place for people like you, Riza."

"People like me?"

Rather than answer, he came around the table and pulled his daughter into an awkward embrace. She stiffened slightly, unused to such shows of affection, but eventually relented and uncertainly wrapped her thin arms around his broad chest. He leaned over and kissed the top of her head, muffling his words in her golden blonde hair so that she could barely hear them.

"Just be careful, lastochka."

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><p><strong>Vienna, Greater German Reich - 12th March 1938<strong>

The Captain preened slightly in the mirror then slumped slightly and began desperately trying to get his hair out of his eyes. After a final abortive attempt, he turned to his bursche.

"How do I look?"

Alphonse Elric looked over his master's uniform with a critical eye, straightening any barely perceptible creases in his grey uniform like a mother might a child on his first day of school. After straightening a few medals and repositioning the man's tall peaked cap, he appeared satisfied.

"Suitably dashing, sir."

"Maybe I should..."

The Captain was cut off by a loud rapping on the door of the hotel room. Alphonse hurried over to open the door and was immediately faced with the nonchalant figure of Lieutenant Jean Havoc. Unlike the Captain's formal dress, the Lieutenant's uniform was in a state of utter disarray. The Captain turned to the newcomer, his expression one of great annoyance.

"Havoc! You look like an utter disgrace."

The Lieutenant shrugged, his eyes glinting.

"I wouldn't bother too much with clothes considering the first thing I am going to do when we get down is to find a pretty little thing to tear them off again."

The Captain let out a bark of mocking laughter at that and Havoc became suddenly defensive.

"What are you laughing about? Those Austrian girls were throwing themselves at us when we drove in. My engineers are still pulling flowers out of my panzer's exhaust!"

"Correction, Havoc. They were throwing themselves at me and you just happened to be in the way."

The half-French Lieutenant shook his head perhaps a tad more violently than was necessary.

"No! It was..."

The Captain disappeared deeper into the hotel room searching for his other glove. As Havoc slumped theatrically against the doorpost in mock despair, another person appeared in the doorway, his stocky silhouette contrasting with Havoc's lanky one.

"Hey Al? Is the Captain ready yet?"

The sixteen-year-old manservant nodded as he folded away some discarded clothes. Upon hearing his other subordinate's voice, the Captain himself called out from the washroom.

"Can you not wait for a moment? Mein Gott!"

Al sighed and whispered apologetically to the newly arrived Lieutenant.

"Sorry about this, Lieutenant Breda. He's been in a foul mood all afternoon..."

"Of course I am in a foul mood! I am surrounded by lazy, incompetent subordinates, I have a six hour meeting with General Archer tomorrow morning and I can't find my bloody left glove!"

The Captain stormed out of the washroom, a violent scowl on his face. As he walked past Alphonse, the boy noticed something white poking out of the man's jacket pocket. With a single practiced motion, the boy pulled it out and dropped it on the ground. The Captain continued, the boy's deception going unnoticed. As he reached the doorway, he turned to see Alphonse coming back to his feet with the missing glove held triumphantly in his hand.

"Sir? I found your glove. It was... um... under the bed."

"Ah... Thank you, Alphonse. At least one of my men is capable."

Havoc and Breda both rolled their eyes behind the Captain's back and the boy had to hide a smile at their antics. Oblivious, the Captain turned once more and strode out the door, his two Lieutenants falling in behind him.

They had been quartered in the faded opulence of the Hotel Marie Leopoldina, the nicer housing being used up by dignitaries in the Civil Service or the SS. Still, it was reasonably comfortable and the locals had festooned the place with flags and paper streamers in honour of the unification. In the lobby, a huge swastika made from flowers and black silk dominated the back wall while men in the grey uniform of the Wehrmacht were tiny islands in crowds of celebrating locals. Faced with such festivity, the Captain's severe expression softened slightly. Breda caught the man's eye and laughed.

"Come on Captain! If you keep this up, you might be picked up for being detrimental to morale."

The Captain snorted but the scowl was beginning to be replaced by a faint smile.

"It is nice, isn't it Lieutenant? To see our people smile. Germany has not had much reason to smile in recent times."

The two Lieutenants nodded. Navigating the crush of bodies was not easy, especially when their uniforms attracted the attention of the public but eventually they managed to escape the lobby and stumble into the bright afternoon sun. The three wandered around aimlessly for a while, trying to follow the crowd towards the nearest beer hall. After a while, they got caught up in a great rush towards what looked to be the very street they had driven their panzers the previous morning. Lines of stern faced police officers and Wehrmacht troopers stood on the curb to keep the road clear. Amid the crowd, someone shouted above the babble:

"It's the Führer!"

"What!"

The three Wehrmacht officers pushed their way towards the front of the crowd just in time to see a convoy of beetle black Mercedes Benz automobiles approaching down the road, red swastika flags flying from their bonnets. The crowd's roar became almost deafening as the cars came near and a chant began to form.

"Ein Volk, ein Reich, ein Führer!"

Flags were flying from every surface, every hand was raised in salute. The chant was now loud enough to block out all noise except for itself, all thoughts except for screaming devotion.

"Ein Volk, ein Reich, ein Führer!"

In an open car, a dark haired moustachioed man saluted the roaring crowd, thoughts of conquest foremost on his mind.

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><p><strong>German Terms<strong>

Wehrmacht - Nazi German Armed Forces

SS/Schutzstaffel - Nazi German State Security, main perpetrator of Nazi atrocities

Panzer - German word for tank (in this story, it will usually refer to the Panzerkampfwagen IV)

Bursche - German word for the personal valet to a commissioned officer (known in Britain as a Soldier-Servant or a Batman)

Ein Volk, ein Reich, einFührer - "one people, one nation, one leader", motto of Nazi Germany

**Russian Terms**

NKVD - Soviet Secret Police, similar (although not quite the same) to the Nazi SS

Goskomizdat - Soviet Department responsible for censorship of literature

lastochka - Russian pet name meaning "little swallow"


	2. Chapter 1: Kotelnikovo and Kalach

**Disclaimer:**This story contains strong language, violence and realistic depictions of war crimes. In some cases, the war crimes will have been committed by major characters. While many sympathetic military characters in the manga and anime are guilty of comparable crimes, I understand that it might be more difficult to read if the crimes closely resemble real life atrocities. If any of the above might be a problem, I recommend you stop reading now.

**N.B.** I have tried to make the story easy to read for those without significant knowledge of the period but I am quite fond of using foreign language terms rather than their English translations (which I feel sound clunky) so if there are any terms that you don't understand, I have added a small glossary at the bottom. 

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><p>~0\~

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><p><strong>Chapter 1: Kotelnikovo and <strong>**Kalach**

**Kotelnikovo, ****Reichskommissariat Kaukasus****- 23****rd**** August 1942**

The door creaked upon, the noise terrifyingly loud in the silent hotel. For a moment, Alphonse froze where he stood, fearful of awakening one of the less understanding officers and being chewed out, but the eerie building remained quiet and he eventually pushed the door open enough for him to slip through. The room beyond was in almost complete darkness, even the faint light of the moon was held back by the pulled curtain. Alphonse peered around, trying to find the Captain. He was almost sure that he had heard the man speaking but when he saw him lying still on the bed, the young manservant wondered whether he had been mistaken. He was about to slip out again when he heard the faint murmur of his master's voice.

"Just doing... I had to..."

The Captain began to stir, his sleeping form twitching as if possessed. Alphonse was surprised to hear faint sobs break up the man's barely formed words.

"Stop... No, I didn't want... Please... NO!"

The man's convulsions stopped and the Captain lay still again. Alphonse was about to try and creep out again when he heard the Captain speak again, louder and more coherent.

"Alphonse? Is that you?"

A thrill of illogical terror ran up the young man's spine as if he had been caught doing something terrible.

"Y-Yes sir."

The Captain's silhouette sat up, the sheets pooling around his waist. There was the rasp of a match being struck and a small kerosene lamp on his bedside flared to life. In the lamp's orange light, Alphonse could not help but notice that the Captain's hair was shining with sweat and his sheets were tangled around his limbs like a fever patient.

"Is there something wrong, sir? Are you sick? I mean, it would be terrible considering the attack is tomorrow..."

The Captain looked up, his dark eyes still clouded by sleep. For a moment he stared dumbly at his manservant but then he seemed to understand.

"Oh... Yes. Of course. The attack. We will be the first ones in."

The Captain lapsed back into silence for a long time before suddenly snatching up his heavy, silver pocket watch where it lay next to the lamp. After checking the time, he sighed slightly.

"We still have four hours before I am even meant to be dressed."

He turned his head towards his young bursche.

"You should go to bed, Alphonse. I did not mean to wake you up."

The young man simply shrugged.

"I am a light sleeper. And I don't think I will be able to get back to sleep, not now."

The Captain chuckled darkly, his head craning back to look at the ceiling where the lamp cast flickering spectres like a shadow play.

"No... I don't think I could go back either. Well..."

He looked down and gave Alphonse a forced smile.

"How about some tea, Alphonse?"

"With a little brandy, sir?"

"Yes. I think some brandy would do nicely."

By the time Alphonse returned with the desired drink in hand, the Captain was sitting half-dressed on the bed and fiddling with the buttons of the jacket, something he had begun to have problems with. Back when they were serving in France, the Captain had been able to dress himself adequately without the assistance of his trusty bursche but, in recent months, he invariably ended up confusing the rows of holes on the double breasted setup or else mangling the black necktie. This morning, the buttons were all over the place and the necktie had been tied into a truly grisly Gordian knot before being tossed carelessly on the floor. Once the Captain was distracted by his tea, Alphonse grabbed the tie and began attempting to unpick the Captain's previous attempt at tying the thing.

"Alphonse?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Thank you."

"For the tea, sir?"

"Oh... yeah. For the tea." 

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><p>The Captain pushed open the top hatch of his panzer's commander's copula, no longer able to bear the stuffy interior of the tank. As he stood up in his seat, enjoying the breeze, he heard his new radio officer babbling to the main gunner.<p>

"They say that it is the largest air armada ever assembled. More than one and a half thousand aircraft have been pulled from all across the Reich to create it: Luftflotte Vier!"

The Captain felt the need to roll his eyes at the Private's excitement. Kain Fuery was one of the fresh new recruits sent in to replace their losses during Barbarossa and with an obsession with technology which made in equal parts very useful and slightly annoying. The Captain occasionally felt the need to snap at him but always fought down the urge, if only because it was not behaviour becoming of a commissioned officer. Fortunately for the nerves of the rest of the crew, the main gunner, a dark haired man with odd lightning streaks on his temples, had no such compunctions.

"Private?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Shut up."

"But..."

Fuery's words were drowned out beneath the roar of another wave of bombers flying overhead towards the city. The Captain watched them as they approached Stalingrad, an ugly smudge of greasy black smoke that rose from behind the horizon. Once the last of the bombers had delivered their incendiary payloads, the panzers of the Fourth Army would roll into the city. The attack had been carefully planned to the last minute. The Wehrmacht relied on synchronised attacks from land and air, operations that went like well maintained clockwork. So, like a loyal little cog in the vast and overly complex machine of the German military, the Captain could do nothing but wait for the signal to move. As he waited, he unconsciously flicked the lid of his pocket watch open and closed.

"Sir?"

The Captain sat down and peered past the loader to see the bespectacled face of his radio officer. The ignorant mix of fear and excitement on the untested, young Private's face told him all he needed to know. They had received the order. The Captain acknowledged and sent word to Falman for them to move out.

The panzer's driver gunned the engines and the machine shuddered into motion. The Captain looked left to check that the rest of the company was following. Lieutenant Havoc's second platoon was already on the move and third platoon, commanded by Lieutenant Breda, was keeping pace just behind. As they moved across the steppe, the panzers began to accelerate. Driving at such speeds was far from comfortable but if the Russians had any large guns, the flat and empty landscape made them easy targets.

In the distance, flashes of orange light were reflected in the oily smoke over the city. Those were from the anti-aircraft guns of the city's Russian defenders and the Fourth's primary objective for the day. They also represented the main threat to his panzers. Most guns designed to knock out aircraft flying at six kilometres up could do some nasty damage to a panzer at closer ranges. To his extreme left, he could hear guns begin to fire. Third platoon swung around to engage while second stayed its course to protect the Captain's flank. Shortly afterwards, the Captain heard Fuery shout over the noise of the engine.

"Lieutenant Breda has come under fire and has begun to engage the enemy. No casualties so far!"

The Captain acknowledged the message and sent one of his own.

"Tell him once he clears out the Reds he is to wait for the grenadiers to catch up. And good hunting."

"Yes, sir."

Two platoons now spread out into a wide line, Havoc guarding the left flank while the Captain led the centre. After another few minutes, the Captain made out a set of earthenwork positions about two thousand metres to the northeast. Within minutes, the rest of the platoon had called it in. Without even a word passing between the crewmembers, the main gun was loaded with high explosive shells and the lightening haired gunner was dialling in the enemy fortifications.

"Permission to fire, sir?"

Flashes of orange lit up the enemy positions as their guns began to fire. The Captain immediately sat back down and closed the hatch. He would rather deal with the copula's restricted vision than risk being hit by a stray piece of shrapnel.

"Permission granted."

Up and down the line, the panzers fired in a single thunderous salvo. The earthen fortifications disappeared in a spray of dirt and smoke. Here and there, the enemy guns detonated in spectacular explosions as their ammunition was detonated. The return fire was paltry, most of it flying past the advancing panzers and the rest glancing off their thick frontal armour. The Captain was unable to make out any casualties on his own side. A thin smile began to tug at his lips.

"Charlie? Enemy gun at 11 degrees. Fire when ready."

"Yes sir."

The next salvo was more ragged as the individual commanders chose their own targets but it was no less devastating. The return fire from the enemy guns was surprisingly persistent albeit ineffective. The Captain snorted. The Reds were putting up truly pathetic resistance today. As soon as he thought it, there was a cruel metal clang followed immediately by a nasty grinding sound. The Captain's panzer immediately slowed almost to a halt. The Captain looked down into the chassis, scanning for fire or blood. Having found no sign of either, he yelled out.

"Is anyone hurt?"

A chorus of negatives met his statement and he breathed a sigh of relief. Fuery, surprisingly enough was the first to ascertain what had been hit.

"I think they dislodged one of the treads."

The Captain swore, then slouched back in his seat.

"Fuery? Send a message to Havoc. Tell him that he will have to go to the party without me but not to advance past the enemy line. Copy that to Sergeant Falman as well."

Through the thick bulletproof glass of his copula, the Captain could make out his platoon sergeant's panzer as it moved in front of his own to give his crew cover should they need to bail out. Ahead of them, the distinctive clatter of machineguns told the Captain that Havoc had closed with the enemy and were mopping up any stray infantry. Deciding to risk it for the benefit of peripheral vision, the Captain threw the top hatch open just in time to see Falman clamber out of his own vehicle. The grey haired NCO saluted as he walked over.

"Technical difficulties, Captain?"

"Something like that, Sergeant. I trust I am the only casualty we suffered?"

"Yes, sir. You always did have the Devil's Luck."

The Captain shrugged, his smile widening.

"At least it was some pathetic 35mm peashooter rather than one of those 85mm monsters..."

Fuery called out something from within the panzer and the Captain immediately dropped back down to catch it.

"Sorry, Private. What did you just say?"

"It is Lieutenant Havoc, sir. He asks if you can come immediately."

The Captain snorted and pushed himself out the hatch. As he clambered down the side, he turned to his surprised platoon sergeant.

"Sorry, Falman, but I am going to need to borrow your vehicle for the time being."

When the Captain arrived at the Soviet's defensive line, he was surprised to see the tank crews out of their vehicles and wandering around. As soon as his borrowed panzer came to a halt, he was met by one of Havoc's subordinates.

"Captain? I am truly sorry about this... Lieutenant Havoc appears to have taken a nasty turn and he demanded you..."

The Captain's brow furrowed and he followed the nervous sergeant around a scorched earthen position. The smell of awful greasy stench of badly cooked meat assailed their nostrils as they entered the gun pit. Havoc was standing next to the ruined gun, one of his ubiquitous cigarettes dangling unlit from his lips. As soon as he saw the Captain approach, he began to stride towards him. His commander did not notice the violence in the Lieutenant's step until it was too late. The blonde man grabbed the Captain by his jacket and slammed him into the side of the burnt-out gun.

"How could you!"

The Lieutenant's face was twisted into a furious mask, his usual easy-going demeanour completely absent. The Captain found the change quite startling.

"Lieutenant Havoc! What are you..."

"You knew! You always know! So why didn't you say something!"

The man's blue eyes began to water.

"You just told us to open fire..."

Over the distraught Lieutenant's shoulder, the Captain could suddenly make out a small figure covered by a blanket. A long blonde pigtail stuck out from under the thin covering.

"They were school girls! Barely even eighteen! And we just..."

Havoc was now staring at his boots, his grip slack enough that the Captain could have easily torn himself free. Instead, he simply stood there silently.

"Their guns didn't even have any effect. There was no reason for us to..."

Havoc fell to his knees, staring at his hands.

"They were just school girls..." 

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><p><strong>Kalach, Stalingrad Front - 23<strong>**rd**** August 1942**

One of the men on the frontline panicked, throwing down his rifle and running away from the chest high barricade. He made it all of six paces before he collapsed screaming. One of his comrades turned at his pained cries and was horrified to find himself staring down the barrel of a blocky dull-grey pistol.

"Continue shooting, comrade."

The man blanched and stumbled backwards. Standing in front of him was a woman of about thirty wearing the uniform of a politruk. In her hand was a blocky Mauser pistol and it was pointed squarely at him.

"I said: continue shooting, _comrade_."

Despite the gunfire all around them and the fact that the politruk did not raise her voice, he could clearly make out the menace in her speech. With a frightened whelp, the man turned back to the fighting and began firing his rifle with feverous determination. Behind him, the politruk snorted and walked over to the wounded man who had tried to run. Instead of crawling back to his position, he remained lying on the ground sobbing like a child. Another shot from her Mauser ended the coward's screeching.

"Pathetic."

"Commissar Armstrong!"

The politruk looked up from the dead deserter to see a man with the distinctive white hair and dusky skin of Lieutenant Miles. He was panting and his rifle was slung. Armstrong gave him a second to catch his breath, not wanting to waste time trying to decipher a garbled message. After a short moment, the man stood tall and saluted.

"Commissar! Major Raven at the barricade at Komsomol Street is requesting permission to retreat. He has come under attack from fascist panzers and he does not have anything to hold them back."

The female politruk snarled at the Major's feebly hidden attempt at self-preservation but could find no fault in his logic. The Soviet artillery had been hit badly by the German aircraft and their own tanks were too far away to be of any use. All they had were a handful of outdated anti-tank rifles and defective rifle-grenades. After a moment's thought, she grudgingly admitted defeat.

"Send my brother's unit to the area. They should be able to keep the fascists busy, for a while at least. But Komsomol Street must hold."

That was the difficulty with fighting the Germans: their entire doctrine was about piercing the front line. If the Soviets had learnt anything from the humiliations in the Ukraine, it was that even a single breakthrough could result in entire armies being surrounded and worn down by numerically inferior foes. It was a method which worked on the tactical level as well as the strategic and one needed to strike a delicate balance between the need to straighten any kinks in the frontline and preventing a total rout. Considering the overwhelming mobility of their foes and the quality of the troops under her oversight, any attempt at retreat would turn into a massacre.

"Chyort! Lieutenant Miles? Make sure these cretins don't break. I will deliver the news to the Major myself."

Armstrong barely waited for the Lieutenant to salute in confirmation before she took off towards Komsomol Street at a run. Major Raven... If one man filled the very definition of spineless, sentimental imbecility, it was that man. She had even heard that he insisted on tending to his own wounded, disregarding the entire chain of command for the sake of a handful of his men.

The blonde politruk turned a corner and was immediately faced with a dozen terrified looking civilians, women and young children. Instead of trying to protect themselves they were merely cowering in the streets. How pathetic.

"All of you! You have just been conscripted into the Red Army. Do as I say or I will execute you on the spot for desertion!"

Their panicky babbling turned to horrified silence. One of them, a grey haired matron who was fleshier than anyone had a right to be in wartime, stepped forwards and opened her mouth to protest. Armstrong did not even let the words escape before she emptied her Mauser into the bloated traitor.

"Any other questions?"

The assembled civies... no soldiers were quick to deny any thoughts of disobedience and the politruk began herding them towards Raven's position like the frightened sheep they were. While they did not have guns or training, they could at least help shoring up barricades or reloading rifles. Maybe their presence might motivate the men to fight harder. Some of the stories in the Government Issue pamphlets about what the fascists did to captured Soviet women should be sufficient to steel their resolve.

When they finally reached the Komsomol Street, Armstrong was disappointed to find that Raven had not been exaggerating. While the panzer seemed to have moved on, the effects of its cannon and machineguns were very apparent on the barricade and surrounding buildings, all of which were slick with Soviet blood. The Major was standing near the top of the barricade, directing fire through a flimsy cardboard periscope. At his subordinate's yell, he turned and recognised the female politruk immediately.

"Commissar! We are being overrun! I have already lost half of my company..."

"Then you still have half a company to give, Major. Also, I have some reinforcements for you."

The man blanched slightly at the sight of the civilian women and children.

"What are you doing? Those people should have been evacuated long ago..."

"Well, nothing we can do about it now. They can help rebuild the barricade and reload rifles for your men."

Raven grimaced but eventually relented and barked an order for his few surviving NCOs to put the women to work. As he did, he called over his shoulder to the politruk.

"I hope you have a better plan than just stand here and die, Commissar."

Armstrong smiled, a chilling, predatory thing.

"It would not be _prudent _to make plans which violate our orders, Major."

Before Raven could reply, one of the men on the barricades yelled out.

"They are attacking again!"

Immediately, the sound of gunshots intensified and the Soviet soldiers wearily threw themselves to the lip of the barricade, firing off a shot or two before ducking back behind cover. A few of the braver women grabbed rifles from the dead and joined the troop at the top. While Raven continued to peer through his periscope, Armstrong simply stood up and scanned the approach with her own eyes. The fascists were approaching steadily on the left, using the rubble caused by the aerial bombing as cover from the Soviet fire. She hissed at the incompetence of her ill-trained conscript troops as their fire failed to even slow the German advance. Bullets whizzed by her head and she ducked back down, crawling a few metres to the left before sticking her head out again. The fascists had stopped advancing and were now hiding among the rubble, about two hundred metres down the road. Armstrong suddenly had a very bad feeling about what they were doing, a feeling validated moments later by Major Raven and his ridiculous periscope.

"They have a machinegun!"

Unlike the sharp crack of the rifles, the German machinegun produced a lower sound like a hydraulic drill pounding through concrete. One of the women was too slow to duck and was scythed down in a hail of bullets from the automatic weapon. The gun proceeded to sweep up and down the barricade, forcing the rest of the Soviet troopers to dive for more solid cover. Armstrong peeked over the top and swore. The fascist had picked a very good position to set up his MG where a fallen slab of concrete provided his entire body with overhead cover from the Soviet elevated position. Only the ugly black body of his gun was visible. In the meantime, the rest of the fascists were running forward, grenades in hand. She tried to get a shot off from her Mauser but was immediately forced back down by another burst from the enemy machinegun. As she knelt behind the barricade, trying to think of a solution, she saw someone move out of the corner of her eye.

It was one of the women she had picked up, a pale blonde girl clutching a dead man's rifle. As she watched, the young blonde stood and brought the rifle to her shoulder. Bullets impacted on the barricade and flew around her but she did not duck. Instead, she stood calmly among the fire aiming the rifle. Just as Armstrong was sure that she would be cut down, she fired and the fascist machinegun went quiet. Immediately, the rest of the Soviet troops raised their rifles and fire on the advancing German riflemen. Running in the open and denied covering fire by their MG, the fascists were easy prey. Armstrong was not so much interested in them as what had happened to the German machinegun. Snatching a pair of binoculars from the protesting Major Raven, she examined the concrete slab where the gun had been set up and almost laughed.

The fascist machine gunner had damaged his bipod during his mad dash to the firing position and had tried to brace his weapon against the rubble with his left hand instead. The girl had managed to hit that tiny patch of exposed flesh, two hundred metres down range. After a moment, the wounded man abandoned his gun and tried to run but was brought down by a veritable fusillade of gunfire from the Soviet troops.

Armstrong turned back to look for the blonde girl but she was no longer on the barricade. While the rest of the Soviets celebrated having survived the most recent German assault, the politruk jumped down and scanned the streets for the sharpshooter. There! The girl was running away, the rifle discarded. Armstrong frowned and followed. After a minute, the girl dived down an alley only to find it blocked by rubble. She turned to find Armstrong standing in the alley's opening, her Mauser drawn.

"Why did you try and run?"

The girl gazed at her with frantic brown eyes and looked back at the rubble blocking the alley. It looked far too treacherous to try and climb, especially if someone was taking shots at you as you did. Desperation began to creep into the girl's brown eyes as she weighed her options. Armstrong made it easy by walking over to her and grabbing her arm.

"Why did you run? Answer me!"

The girl looked at her, the desperation turning her eyes wild.

"Please! I... I don't want to..."

She was babbling. Armstrong shook her slightly.

"What is your name?"

The girl clammed up for a moment before gazing dejectedly at the ground.

"Riza."

Armstrong's frown deepened.

"Don't play games with me girl. The only reason I haven't already shot you is because my brother needs people like you in his unit. Now answer me: What is your name?"

The girl replied and the politruk immediately understood her reluctance. Her father must have been the strategist the NKVD executed back in '37. Armstrong remembered him mainly for the fact that after his execution, all of his books on strategy had been removed from the military libraries. Given the current paranoia about spies and counter-Communist saboteurs, it was unlikely anyone with her name would last very long at all, especially with the NKVD checking the papers of anyone leaving the city. Armstrong knew that it probably would be the most correct option to hand her over to the firing squad. But at the same time, Alex's unit were just about the only things preventing a total rout in the sector. How many good Soviet lives would she be throwing away if she sent this talented young sharpshooter to the firing squad?

In the end, the decision was not hard to make.

~/0\~

**German Terms**

Luftflotte Vier- or in English: Airfleet Four. This was the largest air formation ever assembled, numbering 1,600 craft at its height. Luftflotte Vier was responsible for the bombing of Stalingrad during which an estimated 40,000 civilians were killed (the same number as were killed during the ENTIRE bombing campaign against Britain)

Operation Barbarossa - The name given by the Germans for the invasion of the Soviet Union in 1941, which was intended to be a single knockout blow. While numerous crushing defeats were visited upon the Soviets, the Germans were unable to complete their objectives by the onset of winter, thus allowing the Soviets time to rearm and mobilise their troop strength

Panzer - German word for tank (in this story, it will usually refer to the Panzerkampfwagen IV)

Bursche - German word for the personal valet to a commissioned officer (known in Britain as a Soldier-Servant or a Batman)

**Russian Terms**

Politruk - or in English: Political Commissar. These officers were created to maintain ideological wellbeing among the military and (in the first part of the war) commanded "barrier troops" who would execute anyone attempting to retreat without explicit permission, in accordance with Stalin's Order No.227 (also known as the "Not a step back" Order)

Chyort - Russian expletive loosely equivalent to "damn"

NKVD - Soviet Secret Police. This organisation was responsible for the suppression of counter-government activity and major participant in Stalin's purges. Infamously brutal and unwilling to admit their mistakes, they were feared particularly for being prepared to arrest anyone for the smallest reason


	3. Chapter 2: Chervlenoye and Karpovskaya

A brief note in response to an anonymous reviewer: ages are meant to be in time with the character's cannon participation in Ishval. During the sections set in Kirovsk, Riza is fourteen making her nineteen during the scenes by 1942. Roy is closer to his mid twenties. Also, I generally refer to Mustang as the Captain simply because the name "Roy Mustang" feels too conspicuously American for my taste. Naturally if you disagree, feel free to say something in a review or PM.

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><p>~0\~

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><p><strong>Chapter 2: Chervlenoye<strong> **and ****Karpovskaya**

**Chervlenoye, ****Reichskommissariat Kaukasus - 27****th**** August 1942**

General Archer leant low over the conference table, his already pallid features given an almost corpse like appearance by the sharp white glare of the electric lights and the manic expression which split his grim visage in a disturbing parody of a smile.

"The Reds have been on the run for months now, men, and now they have run out of land to cede, they will turn and fight like the cornered rats they are. But not much further! This is the battle where the East will be won, the final confrontation between the glorious forces of National Socialism and the tide of Communism, International Jewry and all the other degenerate swine who dare to threaten our beloved Fatherland!"

The General's voice faltered for a moment and he entered a raspy coughing fit. But just as the officers thought me might stop, he slammed his fist onto the desk and continued, his voice hoarse but filled with even greater intensity.

"This is a glorious day! For Germany and the forces of anti-Communism across the globe! The Fourth Panzer Army has been chosen by the Führer himself to lead our offensive into the enemy heartland. He desires... no, he _demands_ that we take the city of the enemy's accursed leader! And we will give it to him! Already, the Luftwaffe is turning that vile pile of stone into history's greatest funeral pyre! And when they are done, it will be the Fourth's Panzers who will wash the streets clean with the blood of Communist dogs! It is a sacred duty, one which Germany must complete else..."

The Captain's eyes glazed over. Having realised that Archer had not called this meeting for anything more important than his own obsession with war, the young panzer-ace's attention drifted to other things, namely the recent mutiny of one of his Lieutenants. The entire affair had left him completely shaken. At first, he had thought that Havoc's reaction was just a show of stress. This would be their third year of war and despite Archer's rhetoric, the end did not seem to be anywhere in sight. But then he had reread the report he had been issued before the attack.

_Opposition are believed to be the 39__th__ Rifle Guards and the 1077__th__ Anti-Aircraft Regiment. The first are a regular army regiment with a fair degree of experience but information regarding the composition, structure and equipment of the 1077__th__ is sparse. Most likely case is that they are a volunteer group operating outdated guns._

It was not stated explicitly but he had been fighting the Soviets long enough to read between the lines. Something like anti-aircraft guns could be used by anyone and the recent conscription orders would mean that the guns would not be crewed by able-bodied young men but those who could not fight usefully elsewhere. The old, the infirm, women, children... He should have realised.

Except, what good would it have done? What would he have done differently? Would he have ordered his men to hold fire, to simply idle in the middle of the plain while those young girls blew up his panzers one by one? Would he have tried to scare them off, to fire over their heads and persuade them to flee? They had not fled when their own positions were going up like fireworks on the Führer's birthday. So, what? What did Havoc expect him to do? The Captain felt a touch of anger for a moment before it disappeared and left him feeling drained.

What was wrong with him? Two years ago, he would never have even entertained the possibility that killing a woman was the right thing to do and, now, he was getting angry at one of his subordinates for standing up to him over an order to slaughter school girls? Suddenly the small conference room felt stifling. He needed to clear his head. The Captain stood. Archer halted his ranting for a moment and the Captain excused himself, citing a forgotten engagement with his subordinates. As he left the conference room, he felt someone's eyes on his back and turned. A man was following him out of the conference room, a man wearing a black uniform trimmed with silver. The sight was enough to freeze his blood.

Few officers of the Wehrmacht willingly interacted with their counterparts in the SS. Usually the SS only appeared to drag off some poor devil who had complained too loudly about the Führer's micromanagement of Wehrmacht matters or even less treasonous thoughts: pointing out the duplicity of a news report which condemned the Allied bombing raids as wanton murder while gleefully listing the casualties caused by the Luftwaffe's own attacks, deriding the decrease in the quality of German made cigarettes, remembering aloud the failed aims of Operation Barbarossa which was officially called "a great success". The man in black offered his hand, a movement that might have been reassuring if it hadn't caused the silver skulls on his uniform to flicker with insane grins.

"It is truly an _honour_ to meet you, Captain."

The Captain took the offered hand and shook it awkwardly. This was not a conversation he wanted to prolong. The handshake was odd, old fashioned and refined rather than the brutal show of force that he had been expecting.

"You flatter me..."

The SS man smiled, eerily mirroring the skulls on his uniform.

"Sorry, I neglected to introduce myself. I am Hauptsturmführer Zolf J Kimbley and there is no need for you to tell me your name. When I was assigned to the Second Panzer Division, we all heard tales of the 'Hero of Kiev'. Unfortunately, this is not a social call."

The Captain's eyes narrowed slightly.

"Then what is the occasion, Hauptsturmführer?"

Kimbley's smile never wavered.

"I was wondering if I may have a word with your Lieutenant, Jean Havoc? There are some rumours that he has become rather disillusioned with the Wehrmacht's recent actions around Stalingrad and I simply want to clear up any potential understanding before it becomes a problem."

The Captain nodded stiffly.

"I am not sure where Havoc is currently but I am sure one of my other officers will know. Would you like me to take you to him?"

"It would be a _pleasure_, Captain."

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><p>~0\~

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><p>A thin line of smoke disturbed the uniformity of the blue summer sky, tainting what might otherwise have been an almost idyllic scene. Facing away from the smouldering city to the east and the endless convoys of troops being ferried in from the south, the land here might have been mistaken for East Prussia or even the Swabian farmland of Lieutenant Havoc's own childhood. The Lieutenant snorted at the notion as he gazed out at the scene with sunken eyes. It was disgustingly peaceful, too serenely unconcerned with the brutality which had occurred just over the horizon to the south.<p>

They had counted eighteen guns after the battle, each crewed by a team of eight. Apart from the commander and a handful of cripples presumably from the Russian Civil War, the entire unit had consisted of girls and young women. After three years of war, Jean thought he was inured against the horrors of battle but the sight of those tiny bodies sprawled on the dusty plain, as boneless as the ragdolls they had barely outgrown, made him sick to the stomach. He closed the curtain and calmed himself with another long drink from the bottle of godawful Russian potato liquor - vodka? - he had found buried under the floorboards of the room he had been assigned.

It was strong stuff but it barely helped at all. Nothing helped... The Lieutenant's bloodshot eyes wandered to the holster slung over his bedstand and the dull metal grip of his Luger. It was not the first time he had considered it, especially late at night when not even the vodka could bring him more than an hour of fitful sleep. He had even made an attempt to write the note but stopped, unsure whether to address it to the Captain, High Command or his mother. Now, after the fourth consecutive night spent dreaming of dead girls and blockish steel machines that belched fire and death, it was beginning to make a lot more sense.

Command had praised him, _praised _him for the action. He almost wanted to beg them to put him on trial, to express disgust and horror at what he had done but instead they gave him a pat on the back and a commendation. He deserved to be put against a wall and shot! That was what you did to murderers, not least a man responsible for the death of over a hundred young girls. The English's Jack the Ripper only got six...

Suddenly, the holster was in his lap and the pistol in his hand. The cold metal of the Luger's barrel felt good against his feverish temple, as if his mind could sense the relief which the weapon would soon bring. The Lieutenant took a deep breath, his finger tightening on the trigger.

"One... two... three..."

_Click_

Empty?

With shaking hands, the Lieutenant removed the pistol's magazine and checked it. Empty. Havoc giggled. The empty pistol fell from his grip and landed on the desk where it sat mockingly in front of him. Just a moment later, the Lieutenant was shaking with laughter, a hollow, humourless sound. There was a thump on the door but the Lieutenant did not seem to hear, his bloodshot eyes unfocused and voice hoarse with mirthless laughter. The knocking at the door became louder, the flimsy wooden thing rattling in its illfitting frame. From the corridor, the Captain's voice rang out.

"Havoc? Are you in there, Jean?"

Another voice interrupted the Captain's.

"Allow me..."

A heavy leather boot punched straight through the door, splinters of cheap plywood flying in every direction. Two more kicks and the door was torn from its hinges, not so much opening as disintegrating beneath the single-minded ferocity of the man behind it. Havoc's eyes refocused and he snatched up the empty pistol and pointed it at the strange man who was now making his way in through the doorway. The man seemed utterly unconcerned with the pistol.

"Lieutenant Jean Havoc? I have been hoping to have a little chat..."

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><p>~0\~

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><p><strong>Kirovsk, USSR - 13<strong>**th**** May, 1937**

Riza wandered aimlessly in the hills overlooking her house, unwilling to return home just yet. Her father had attempted to take away her books that morning and they had exchanged... harsh words. It was her fault for being difficult but she did not want to go back, not yet. It was a small act that ultimately saved her life.

Just as the sun was beginning to fade beneath the distant mountains near the Finnish border, a small cavalcade of motorcars appeared and began to advance up the road towards the house, scurrying beetles on the mud-clogged path. Riza snatched up her binoculars, careful to keep the lenses in the shade of a nearby tree in order to prevent the telltale glint. Government convoy, no doubt about it. Two large ones, probably armoured, and another three normal cars for staff and bodyguards. The two armoured cars made the convoy particularly interesting. Only rather senior party members or military officers got the luxury of having a decoy automobile, a habit picked up during the awful civil war against the Tsarists. She watched as the convoy slowed in front of the house. The smaller cars emptied, the area in front of the house becoming cluttered with loitering men in dull brown military uniforms. After a moment, the door to one of the larger cars swung upon and the largest man Riza had ever seen clambered out. His bald head shone in the weak afternoon sun and despite the General's stripes on his shoulder, he still wore a holster for a service-issue Nagant revolver. It was impossible not to recognise such a distinctive figure.

"Basque Grand."

Grand had once been a close friend of her father and an eager student of his deep battle operations doctrine but the two had parted ways several years ago. Grand had been only a Major back then and the fact that he now wore a General's uniform did not bode well. The Soviet Union was slowly emptying itself of men of imagination like her father and replacing them with those brutal and fanatical enough to survive the purges. Promotion under such criteria was hardly complementary. Combined with the fact that he was accompanied by a dozen armed men...

The door to the house opened.

Riza's father had been sick recently but it was hard to tell from his purposeful stride as he came out to meet the visitors. Even at this distance, Riza could see the soldiers tense and some even raised their odd-looking weapons. Were those the new style submachine guns that her father had mentioned a few months ago, the designs stolen from the Germans? Regardless, her father was unarmed and, after a moment and what was undoubtedly a biting comment from her father, the soldiers sheepishly lowered their weapons. In another life, her father might have made a fine satirist in the style of Swift or Twain. Unfortunately, the communist government had little patience for such things. General Grand stepped forward, his hands conspicuously clasped behind his back.

The conversation was brief and terse. Riza had never been particularly good at reading emotions, the finer details of human interaction being one of the few things which books seemed unable to teach her, but it was apparent even at this great distance that the two were hardly pleased with what the other had to say. After only a minute or so, the General seemed to anger and approached her father until they were toe to toe, towering over him. He whispered something into her father's ear which caused the old man to pale but he was quick to recover and delivered what was evidently another sharp riposte which caused some of the General's men to shake, with rage or laughter it was hard to tell, and the vast man himself to shudder like a battleship being hit by a torpedo.

Without warning, the General struck her father. The old man fell to the ground gracelessly and was immediately set upon by Grand with his heavy army boots. Riza felt her binoculars slip from nerveless fingers. Abandoning her books beneath the tree, she began to run towards the house as fast as she could.

She was still running when she heard the gunshot, as clear as glass in the clean country air.

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><p>~0\~

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><p><strong>Karpovskaya, Stalingrad Front, USSR - 28<strong>**th**** August 1942**

The Headquarters of the 39th Guards were a complete mess. Almost all of the buildings had received bomb damage from the German air attacks and had been patched up by piles of leaking sandbags or else covered over with empty supply crates. The telephone lines had also been badly hit and young messenger boys ran in their place, risking life and limb for some dry military rations and a chance to play soldier. One of them was running to the overseeing officer of the motor pool when he noticed a rather unusual sight. A young man was standing in the middle of the camp, his plain civilian clothes immediately noticeable against the sea of military olive drab. Remembering thrilling tales of German spies and counter-revolutionary saboteurs from his books, the boy approached the suspicious figure stealthily from behind.

"Identification!"

The boy yelled at the top of his voice, causing the spy to jump and let out an almost girlish yelp of surprise. The boy smirked at his reaction and pointed an accusing figure at him.

"Where is your identification?"

The spy's eyes went wide in fear and they began to flick from side to side as some of the adult soldiers began to take notice, curious at what the boy was yelling about. The panic in the spy's eyes grew and he began to stumble back towards the entrance. But the boy was not about to let that happen! He ran forward and threw his arms around the spy's waist, pushing him off balance and causing him to fall forward. Soldiers were running over now, some of them reaching for their revolvers. The boy clung to his prey, already imagining the rewards that the officers would lavish on him for saving the base from this spy: medals and letters of thanks from all sorts of important Generals and Marshals and _chocolate_...

"Get off of me!"

The boy clung tighter at his prey's anguished shout but suddenly felt slightly uneasy. There was something strange about the spy's voice. Before the boy could contemplate further, he felt himself getting pulled off of his catch by a huge hand. Twisting his head backwards, he could make out the silhouette of Major Armstrong. The Major let the boy down gently and then turned to the spy who was now lying on his back, crawling backwards at the sight of the huge officer. As he did, the boy got his first good look at the spy's face and realised with a start that he was in fact a girl. Her short, blonde hair and dirt smeared face made her look rather boyish but now that he was closer, the boy quickly realised his mistake.

"And who might you be, my dear?"

The Major's rumble of a voice seemed to send the girl even further into her panic attack. Some of the other soldiers had begun to arrive, holstering their pistols as they realised that the threat was in fact a cowering teenage girl. They milled around in a loose circle until someone pushed through them. The boy immediately recognised the dark hair and distinctive figure of his favourite officer.

"Becky!"

The boy ran up to the dark haired woman as soon as she elbowed her way through the crowd. Rebecca Catalina ruffled his hair affectionately at his enthusiastic greeting.

"Why do you always attract trouble, Selim?"

The boy shrugged, his face still split in a wide smile.

"Don't know... But look! I caught a spy!"

Rebecca's eyes narrowed and she looked past the grinning messenger boy and at the form lying on the ground. The sight of so many armed soldiers seemed to have pushed the girl over the edge. She had curled into a ball, her eyes becoming unfocused and limbs shaking. Major Armstrong attempted to lay a gentle hand on her shoulder but she flinched away. The huge man sighed theatrically and Rebecca stepped forward.

"Let me handle this."

The Major nodded but almost intervened as Rebecca proceeded to grab the girl by her thin coat and began to physically shake her.

"Wakey wakey!"

The brief session of percussive therapy managed to elicit a reaction, albeit not the one Armstrong had hoped. The young civilian's eyes focused properly and she tore herself from the Sergeant's grasp, glaring at her attacker with astonishing venom. But before she could speak, Rebecca thrust her hand into her face.

"Hello there! Bad start, I know, so we might as well start over. My name is Rebecca Catalina and my job is to kill fascists although if you give me a juicy enough offer I might be prepared to branch out, no children or cats though, unless they are tabby of course in which case you get a 13.5% discount, valid only on Sundays. My favourite pastimes include dancing and reading romance novels with no words longer than three syllables. What about you?"

The blonde girl blinked. Her reaction was shared among most of the soldiers apart from Armstrong, who had heard it before, and Selim, who simply giggled at the gaping mouths of the surrounding soldiers. The moment stretched endlessly before one of the men began to laugh. The sound was infectious and quickly spread to the other soldiers. After a moment, the girl was the only one not laughing at the top of their voice.

"Is there a reason that none of you are attending to your duties or are you simply standing around to make life easier for the fascist bomber planes?"

An imperious female voice boomed from beyond the crowd and the laughter immediately died away. Three figures approached the assembled soldiers and their captured "spy". The one on the right was an exceptionally large man, rivalling the Major in bulk. He would not have looked out of place riding alongside Genghis Khan with his East Siberian features and Chinese-overlord type moustache. On the left was another man, almost as tall but much leaner. His white hair and sideburns stood out starkly against his tanned skin and his eyes were hidden behind tinted spectacles. The figure in the centre was the smallest but rather than be dwarfed by her companions, she dominated the trio by simple virtue of the violence which radiated from her like heat from a fire-poker. That and the Model 1881 Dragoon Sabre dangling at her waist.

"Well?"

Her voice was unnaturally calm, the elegant arch of an eyebrow the only physical sign of her anger. The men began to step backwards, refusing to meet her eye. As her cold blue eyes roved over the assembled men she quickly made out her giant of a brother.

"Major!"

Technically he outranked her but her authority as a Commissar would make anyone short of a full-General quake in his boots and that was before one adjusted for her rather _forceful_ personality.

"Yes, sis-Commissar Armstrong?"

"Why are you allowing these men to abandon their duties to..."

The soldiers had parted enough to allow the politruk an unobstructed view of the source of their gathering. The politruk turned from her brother and turned the full fury of his glare towards the girl, who immediately seized up. Her wide brown eyes met icy blue and an unspoken exchange seemed to play between the two for a moment before the politruk looked up and immediately rounded on the loitering troops.

"Are you still here? Are you really that willing to aid the fascist bombers? Because if that is what you want, the frontline is always in need of more bullet fodder..."

The men took the hint and swiftly dispersed. Major Armstrong, Sergeant Catalina and the girl remained, Selim wisely sneaking away at the sight of the scary woman. The politruk approached, the distinctive broom-handle grip of her Mauser poking out of her uniform, causing a fresh shudder from the girl. The politruk walked straight past them, heading towards the central command building. She spoke without turning back.

"I would consider growing a backbone, Little Miss Sharpshooter. Remember our deal."

The girl nodded at the Commissar's retreating back and turned back to Armstrong, still fearful but determined as well.

"M-Major Armstrong, sir?"

She was barely loud enough to hear. The Major, confused but as compassionate as ever, looked down at the girl. She was now picking herself off the ground.

"Yes?"

"Please make me a sniper."

Her voice was little more than a soft murmur and she failed to make eye contact but she managed not to stutter this time.

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><p>~0\~

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><p><strong>German Terms<strong>

Operation Barbarossa - The name given by the Germans for the invasion of the Soviet Union in 1941, which was intended to be a single knockout blow. While numerous crushing defeats were visited upon the Soviets, the Germans were unable to complete their objectives by the onset of winter, thus allowing the Soviets time to rearm and mobilise their troop strength

Panzer - German word for tank (in this story, it will usually refer to the Panzerkampfwagen IV)

Wehrmacht - Nazi German Armed Forces

SS/Schutzstaffel - Nazi German State Security, main perpetrator of Nazi atrocities

**Russian Terms**

Politruk - or in English: Political Commissar. These officers were created to maintain ideological wellbeing among the military and (in the first part of the war) commanded "barrier troops" who would execute anyone attempting to retreat without explicit permission, in accordance with Stalin's Order No.227 (also known as the "Not a step back" Order)

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><p>~0\~

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><p>Next chapter will be more action and even more FMA characters. Any constructive criticism would be very much appreciated.<p> 


	4. Chapter 3: Kuybysheva and Degtyareva

**Disclaimer: **This story contains strong language, violence and realistic depictions of war crimes. In some cases, the war crimes will have been committed by major characters. While many sympathetic military characters in the manga and anime are guilty of comparable crimes, I understand that it might be more difficult to read if the crimes closely resemble real life atrocities. If any of the above might be a problem, I recommend you stop reading now.

**N.B.** I have tried to make the story easy to read for those without significant knowledge of the period but I am quite fond of using foreign language terms rather than their English translations (which I feel sound clunky) so if there are any terms that you don't understand, I have added a small glossary at the bottom. Also, if anyone has any trouble visualising the inside of the panzer, there are some excellent cutaway pictures available on the Steam Community website for the game Red Orchestra 2 (a game whose puritanical pursuit of realism over fun has made it a justifiable research tool for this story). Just scroll down the page.

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><p>~0\~

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><p><strong>Chapter 3: Kuybysheva and <strong>Degtyareva<strong>**

**Kuybysheva, South of Stalingrad - 1st September 1942**

The panzers rolled out from their temporary lodgings in Chervlenoye at exactly six in the morning with the Wehrmacht's almost mechanical punctuality. General Archer had persuaded the commander of the Sixth Army to accept the Fourth's armoured support in the drive towards the Volga River. Doing so would ensure that the Russians had no way of reinforcing the city apart from across the river itself, an easy target for artillery and aircraft alike. Wehrmacht intelligence was confident that the Russians had no means of transporting tanks to this side of the river but the smarter commanders knew not to be overconfident. There were widespread rumours that the factories in the city were still churning out legions of the round-turreted T-34s, a dreaded foe ever since the previous winter where the hardy Soviet machines had run rings around even the finest German panzers.

Private Kain Fuery had not been present during that endless winter. All he knew were the 6:1 confirmed kill ratios that the Wehrmacht had maintained against their Communist foes, quoted at least three times a day in the newspapers. The idea of facing the Russian machines in headlong battle held no particular fear for the young Private. He _wanted_ to fight for the Fatherland, to actually use his radio and machinegun for more than just practice. He glanced backwards into the chassis.

The Panzer IV had a crew of five. The driver sat next to Fuery at the very front of the panzer and was currently standing up in his seat so as to see out the top hatch. Directly behind the Private was the main gunner, a stoic soldier with odd gold lightning shaped streaks in his otherwise dark hair. Beside him was the loader, a young Austrian-Italian who was almost as young as Kain but had been in the war since the Invasion of France back in 1940. And behind _them_ was the Captain. The commander had come across rather sick these past few days, deep bags under his eyes and an unhealthy pallor clinging to his skin. Despite that however, there was no weakness in his voice as he sent out his commands to the platoon leaders.

"Tell Breda to keep his formation straight _um Himmel zu willen_," he snarled over the clamour of the engine. Fuery quickly hunched over the radio to send a censored version of the command. As he did, he noticed that the driver had sat back down and was closing the armoured hatch over his head. A thrill shot through the crew as they saw the distant outlines of buildings on the horizon. If the enemy were going to attempt an ambush or worthwhile defence, the bombed-out industrial complex would be a fine place to do it.

"Keep up the speed..." the Captain murmured as the panzers advanced towards the complex. Two of the large factory buildings were collapsed but a third remained standing as well as half a dozen smaller structures. The place was easily large enough to conceal an entire company of Russian T-34s, a significant force against the eight panzers of First and Third Platoons. And that did not even consider the possibility of concealed Russian guns or suicidal infantry armed with grenades or bottles of gasoline topped with flaming rags. Fuery had heard rumours which were lurid even by the usual bunkroom standard. He still refused to believe some of them.

Something moved next to the hanger.

"Load armour piercing!" the Captain yelled. The shell was being locked into the gun's breech before he even finished the final word. "Fifteen degrees, distance twelve hundred metres."

The turret turned in response and the driver slowed slightly to give the gunner an easier shot. On either side, the other panzers began to respond to the enemy presence. One fired, the shot going wide.

"Fire!" the Captain ordered. Fuery peered through his own machinegun's gunsight in order to see whether or not the shot hit but it was difficult to make anything out as the panzer shuddered up and down over the rough ground.

"Miss. Load another," the Captain snapped, his voice curt but not harsh. "Hold fire until we pass within one thousand metres."

The Russian tank was next to fire, the shell landing about ten metres in front of them and sending up a magnificent spray of dirt. The driver threw both levers forward and the Soviet tank disappeared behind a wrinkle in the plain. The panzer took a few second to climb up the incline and get the tank in their sights again.

"Eleven degrees, range is one thousand metres on the dot," the Captain called out. "Fire!"

The gun roared, jerking the panzer from the recoil. Fuery pressed his eye to the gunsight in the hope of seeing the enemy blown up but was disappointed.

"Miss. Correction to ten degrees. Range is still a thousand." The next shell was loaded in a flash. The Captain barely paused before he ordered, "Fire!"

This time, they were rewarded with a thick plume of oily smoke from the enemy tank.

"Good hit to the engine block. Gun might still be operational..."

Bright orange flames began to lick the bottom of the smoke and the top hatch was flung open as two Soviet tankers fled their burning vehicle. Moments later, the ammunition store went up in a gorgeous plume of flame, blasting the Russian turret clean off of the chassis.

"Or maybe not," the Captain smirked. More Russian tanks were coming out of the woodwork now, pouring from the intact factory or bursting from beneath camouflaging pieces of rubble. The other seven panzers of the German armoured group halted behind the ridge and began trading shots with their Russian counterparts. Shells whistled through the air, gouging great furrows in the dark soil where they missed and colliding with armour plate in a tremendous crash like a huge pair of cymbals bashed together by an amateur percussionist.

And above it all, the Captain's firm voice.

"Thirty one degrees. Range is nine fifty... Fire."

Another shuddering jerk as the gun discharged.

"Miss... Turn us to the right. We're not going to do anything at this range."

The panzer shuddered into motion, hugging the ridge as it swept around to the west of the complex. The radio clacked. Fuery pressed the headphones against his head and rattled off the messages coming in from the rest of the German force.

"Lieutenant Breda has lost a Panzer but the crew are all fine. Sergeant Falman reports minor damage and no casualties. He is requesting we wait for support from the infantry column..."

"And what are the dirt-pounders going to do about _verdammt_ T-34s? Tell Falman to stop being a coward and hold his position while we flank!"

There was a noise like glass marbles being dropped on a metal sheet and the Captain immediately ducked back into the turret.

"Hard left and stop!" he yelled. The driver jammed the steering levers and the engine roared in protest, the awful shriek of clashing gears assaulting Fuery's senses. Over the noise, he could hear the Captain order, "Brace!"

Fuery froze dumbly and paid dearly. The shock of the collision jarred him to the very bone. His teeth smashed together and he tasted blood in his mouth. His head felt extraordinarily heavy and the engine noise suddenly sounded very far away. Mixed up with that distant sound was the Captain's voice.

"... frontal hit... snuck up on us," the Captain's words dimly registered in the radioman's frazzled brain. There was a sudden draft and Fuery twisted around to see that the Captain was standing up in his seat, his torso out of the top hatch. There was the raw hydraulic pounding of the panzer's machinegun followed by a rapid set of instructions to the gunner.

"Fire!"

The panzer jerked and then shuddered into motion. The machinegun roared again for a moment and then fell silent and the Captain dropped back into the copula, a vicious look on his face. Fuery pressed his eyes against his own gunsight (almost poking himself in the eye as he did) and saw the dead Russian tank, artfully concealed in a shallow dip in the landscape. There was a hole in the turret and two bodies sprawled a few metres from the vehicle. Despite all his training, the sight caused the young private's stomach to turn.

"Come on!" the Captain ordered.

The engine groaned as the driver coaxed it back up to speed. Through his right hand viewport, Fuery could make out the shape of the factory complex, now adorned with plumes of black smoke. As the ridge faded back into the plain, the panzer swung around, now barely two hundred metres from the buildings. Two hundred metres of open ground; manageable but risky all the same.

"Fuery!" the Captain called out, "Tell Breda to advance east by north-east along the ridge, skirt the Russian's maximum range and then set up on the hill. Falman is to stay where he is, count down two minutes and then go all out towards the enemy. Breda will cover him and he can use as many smoke canisters as he wants."

Fuery fiddled with the radio, still blinking bright spots from his eyes. The bleeding in his mouth seemed to have subsided but his jaw ached considerably and he had to repeat himself to make himself understood to the two platoon commanders. The Captain removed his silver pocketwatch and began counting down seconds. After a minute, he snapped the watch shut.

"Forward, full speed."

The driver shoved both levers forward and the panzer began to trundle across the steppe, slowly accelerating to its top speed. Fuery quickly calculated in his head; two hundred metres would be covered in just about a minute, maybe less. It was a long time to be out the open with no cover and no support. He braced himself against the seat, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the radio cover with fearful strength.

The buildings grew through the vision slit, crumbling brick and battered aluminium filling the radioman's limited field of view. The driver coaxed the panzer towards the gap between two of the buildings, a narrow alley barely large enough. The radio crackled: Falman had begun his advance. In response, they could hear the Russian guns fire with desperate intensity, just beyond the behind the buildings. The Captain ordered they move out of the alley.

Four Soviet tanks sat in hull-down positions less than fifty metres away, their guns turned towards Falman and his three-panzer assault.

"Like fish in a barrel..." the Captain breathed. He did not even need to rattle out the co-ordinates. It was point blank. "Fire."

It was a perfect shot: straight through the vulnerable rear armour, the transmission and into the ammunition store. The tank went up like a firecracker before it could even begin to react. This close, the shockwave was considerable, albeit dampened by the panzer's armour. There was a rattling hail of metal debris as the other Soviet tanks swung around to meet the new threat. At this range, the differences between the Soviet and German guns and armour were meaningless. The Captain was gambling everything on his loader's capabilities against the turning speed of the Soviet turrets.

"Fire."

The shells blasted a hole in one of the Soviet turrets, still pointing halfway in the wrong direction. The chassis continued to move but there was no way the gunner or his weapon could have survived. Two down. Two left. The gunner was still adjusting the turret when the first Soviet tank's turret traversed enough to aim properly. The gun belched flame and there was a thunderous blast, not at all like the clang of the shell which had hit them earlier.

For a long moment, Fuery wondered what had happened. Dust clogged the air, mixing with the foul reek of sweat and diesel which already permeating the panzer. Through the vision slits, all Fuery could see was swirling dust. The Soviet gun must have missed and pulverised the cheap brick building behind, kicking up an ungodly amount of debris.

"Where...?" he began only to be swiftly hushed by a sharp kick from the gunner behind him. He fell silent and peered through his machinegun's sight but could make out nothing amid the churned up dust. As he strained his eyes, he realised how deathly quiet the battlefield had become. Even the panzer's engines had cut out. He could even hear his own heart beating in his chest, accelerated by the desperate thrill of battle. And he could hear something else...

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The Captain was tapping his fingernail against the side of his cupola, his eyes closed and mouth drawn into a thin line.

Tap. Tap. Pause. He snapped his fingers.

The panzer's gun fired and was answered a moment later by a bright flare of orange light, distorted by the dust. Another shell whistled by, passing off to their left. The Captain's eyes remained closed as he spoke.

"Seventeen degrees. Fire when ready."

The turret shifted and the panzer fired once more, a fearsome metallic clang vindicating the Captain's prediction. As the dust began to settle, Fuery could make out the burning wreck of the two Soviet tanks which the Captain had brewed up. Another few seconds revealed the two which had been disabled, their plain green sides marred by gaping holes ringed with scorch marks. There were some shapes writhing near the destroyed tanks. For the first time since the battle began, Fuery realised that he was gazing at them through a gunsight. His finger tightened on the trigger and there was a burst of noise. The writhing stopped.

There was a long moment of silence and then a crackle over the radio.

"Lieutenant Breda sends his congratulations. He believes this brings you up to sixty one."

"Sixty two," was the Captain's reply, "I got one over behind the ridge. But I was lucky. If that last one had been armed with armour piercing instead of high explosive rounds..."

Fuery went back to his radio, swiftly forgetting the shapes which had died beneath his gunsight. It was only much later, long after the rest of the crew had collapsed roaring drunk from celebrating their sixtieth kill, that the scene came back and the full implications hit him. He lay in the small bunk he had scrounged, staring at the rough wooden ceiling of the barn they had commandeered and wondering how different it felt to have killed another man.

"I don't feel anything..." he whispered.

"Lucky bastard," someone replied. It did not help him sleep any better.

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><p><strong>Sportanovka, Stalingrad Northern Outskirts - 1<strong>**st**** September 1942**

With dignified slowness, Hauptsturmführer Zolf Kimblee stood. His large bodyguard tried to make pull him back into the trench but he shrugged off his hand and gave him a sharp glare.

"Do not interrupt the performance, Heinkel."

And then he stood tall, his black coat flapping in the stiff autumn breeze. The Russians seemed to have caught sight of him and bullets began whipping around them. Kimblee did not seem to notice them however. His eyes were closed and his hands were held up in front of him as if he was in the middle of some pagan prayer. Heinkel was about to jump out of the trench and manhandle his clearly deranged commander back into cover when he heard something, almost lost amid the clamour of war.

Kimblee was humming.

As if on cue, the distant shriek of aircraft engines drowned out the noise. Kimbley's hand began to tremble and then they descended in a decisive stroke. As they did, the shriek intensified until men dropped their rifles and clamped hands over their ears. At the climax of the noise, the Hauptsturmführer flung his hands wide and the divebombers screamed into view, releasing their deadly payloads as they descended. Kimblee was suddenly silhouetted against the flash of incendiaries, his arms splayed as the enemy trenches were engulfed in explosions. The shockwave buffeted the German trenches and caused Kimblee to sway slightly but he remained upright, his coat flaring open. Above the roar of explosives, Heinkel could hear his commander let out a cry of pure joy.

"I love this part!" he screamed. Another sharp hand movement and another section of the enemy trenches disappeared beneath a torrent of high-explosive ordinance. Then he brought both arms up in a wide sweeping motion and the Waffen-SS troops behind him scrambled out of the trenches, their rifles cracking and popping like roasting chestnuts. The Russians were too rattled by the bombardment to react properly and the Germans were swiftly among them in a swirling mêlée of bullet and bayonet. Heinkel ran forward to prevent Kimblee from hurting himself but found himself outpaced by the smaller Hauptsturmführer. Kimblee practically danced forward, his pistol barking death at the Soviets who tried to close with him. A Communist machinegun started up but was swiftly silenced as the Hauptsturmführer leapt on top of their emplacement and emptied his Luger into the stunned Soviets.

As the pistol clicked dry, one of the Russians raised his own rifle only for it to be wrenched from his hands by the grinning Kimblee. Not even bothering to reverse the weapon, he simply thrust it forward, the butt connecting solidly with the Soviet's face in a crunch of breaking teeth and cartilage. The Soviet collapsed and Kimblee finished him with a shot from his own rifle.

The Russians were routing now, fleeing their trench lines across an empty stretch of dirt to a cluster of brick houses which served as their command post. Snarling at their cowardice, the Hauptsturmführer lifted the Soviet machinegun and braced it against the opposite side of the earthworks. Over the gun's consumptive splutter, Heinkel could make out Kimblee laughing at the top of voice. None of the Russians still in the open made it back to their command post; they were all scythed down one after the other by Kimblee and his stolen gun.

By the time Heinkel caught up with the man he was supposed to protect, the fighting had calmed significantly. The occasional rifle crack rang out as dead Soviets were revealed to be less so but the German troops were mainly preoccupied with reloading and rearming from their assault and the Soviets were hastily reinforcing their command post. Kimblee's appropriated machinegun had run out of ammunition and the Hauptsturmführer was now leaning backwards against some sandbags, still faintly humming a tune Heinkel did not recognise.

As Heinkel slipped into the dugout, the Hauptsturmführer raised a hand, his eyes closed again.

"I told you not to interrupt. The overture is most beautiful at its quietest."

Heinkel did not know how to answer so held his peace. Kimbley continued humming regardless. A radio operator crawled into the dugout shortly after and the Hauptsturmführer deigned to open his eyes and tap out a brief message in Morse, checking his silver pocket watch as he did. Once it was done, the young radio operator scrambled away again. Heinkel was not sure whether or not to be amused. When members of the Waffen-SS were uncomfortable sharing a dugout with you...

His thoughts were interrupted by Kimblee, now standing up to look over the parapet at the Communist strongpoint.

"A few minutes more before the finale..."

He turned back to Heinkel and looked at him with inscrutable dark eyes.

"Have you ever heard the 1812 Overture?"

At Heinkel's blank look, he shook his head sadly.

"I see. I fear that there has been an unfortunate overemphasis on Wagner these recent years, the Führer's personal favourite. All unsightly Teutonic bombast and no subtlety, no appreciation for moments like these..."

The Hauptsturmführer inhaled deeply and then checked his watch again.

"That is not to say that Tchaikovsky's work is entirely devoid of histrionics..."

Kimblee stood straight again, returning to the pose he had taken just before the storming of the Russian trenches. As he did, Heinkel suddenly realised what it was. It was a conductor's pose.

Kimblee spoke to him without turning around, "Can you feel it? Deep in your bones, like a part of you that you never felt before?"

The divebombers were returning for another pass, their engines becoming louder and louder as they tore across the sky like hawks swooping on a field mouse.

"This is it!" Kimblee breathed, "This is the Crescendo!"

The planes descended, their wailing warcry deafening to hear. It was worse than before and it rose to such a pitch that it became more than just a sound but also a resonance deep in one's body, like one's very heart was aflame with its shriek. Heinkel felt tears forming in his eyes and struggled to remain upright but Kimblee barely seemed to notice. His hands jerked downwards and the planes pulled out of their dives, their bombs continuing to fall.

By the time the bombs detonated, Heinkel could not hear a thing. The roar of the explosions was more a shuddering through his boots and a jerk from the blastwave than actual sound. He staggered and then fell to one knee, his eyes squeezed shut and hands clasped over his ears. And then, there was only ringing silence. Heinkel removed his hands and saw blood on the fingertips. He swore softly but could barely his own voice over the ringing echo in his ears. Slowly it faded and he looked up.

Kimblee stood on the parapet, his eyes closed and face set in an expression of perfect ecstasy. As Heinkel watched, the Hauptsturmführer's eyes flew open and he beheld the burning wreck of the Soviet strongpoint.

"There is no more exquisite symphony in this world than that of war," the man whispered. Then he threw his head back and laughed.

"What do you think of this Overture, Tchaikovsky?" he yelled at the sky. "Show me the nation that weathered Napoleon and his armies. Prove to me that you are worthy of such music!"

Only the silence of the dead followed his words.

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><p><strong>Degtyareva, Stalingrad Front - 1<strong>**st**** September 1942**

Rebecca raised the rifle to her shoulder and peered through the telescopic sight. Riza followed her gaze with a pair of binoculars and saw what her partner was aiming at: a squad of eight men in the grey uniform of the German Army picking their way carefully through the broken rubble. Rebecca talked calmly as she adjusted the scope and chambered a round.

"The fascists are not stupid," Rebecca explained. "They wouldn't have gotten this far if they were. They know not to stay in the open for very long and as soon as you fire your first shot..."

The rifle discharged with a loud crack. One of the Germans fell to the ground and his comrades all dived for cover. By the time Rebecca had worked the bolt and reacquired them through the scope, she had no clear shot. She did not seem fazed at all. In fact, she seemed almost jovial as she spoke.

"That is why you always shoot the first one in the stomach."

Riza realised with a start that the man Rebecca had shot was still moving, writhing on the pavement as he clutched his wounded abdomen. His distant shriek of pain sent a thrill of horror racing down her spine. As Riza watched, one of the man's comrades crawled over to him, a medical satchel in one hand. He was about a metre away when Rebecca's rifle discharged again and the man's head dropped in a pink spray of blood.

"Always shoot to kill with medics and officers," the sniper murmured as she chambered another round.

While she was preoccupied with working her rifle, an intrepid German seemed to have guessed their position as he leant out from behind a ruined automobile and loosed a shot at the building they were in. Riza ducked but Rebecca remained where she was standing. When the German worked up the courage to stick his head out again, Rebecca was ready. The round caught him in the forehead and he dropped like a puppet with its strings cut.

"Don't worry too much about those coal-scuttle helmets of theirs. They need to be a good inch thicker to protect against a direct hit with a Mosin," Rebecca explained in a matter-of-fact way as she chambered another round.

The Germans did not break from cover after that but tried to crawl to the safety of the apartment building. Rebecca got one more as he tried to get across a patch of open ground but missed with her next shot as the rest of the squad rushed for the building all at once. Rebecca tried to fire another shot but the rifle was empty.

"Chyort!" the young Sergeant snarled.

While she reloaded, a shot punched straight through the wall Riza was sheltering behind, missing her by less than a metre. Rebecca grabbed the stunned teenager and dragged her deeper into the house.

As they searched for a new firing position, Rebecca continued her lesson, "Another thing: try and keep moving before they guess your position. If you fire too many shots from the same position or put yourself somewhere painfully obvious, the fascists can just call in a mortar or something and that is the end of it."

Riza nodded distractedly, still shaken from seeing the cheerful and bubbly Rebecca methodically kill four people. By the time they reached another suitable firing position, the Germans were long gone. Rebecca fired a shot into the unmoving body of the man she had hit in the gut. "Just to be sure". Despite everything however, the sniper looked slightly disappointed.

"We could have finished off that squad if you had a rifle and a decent telescopic sight. I don't like leaving a job half-finished like that... Not much we can do about it, I suppose. Got an idea of what being a sniper is all about? Normally this is a three week course but Commissar Armstrong said that you were already pretty handy with a rifle..."

They made their way back to the Soviet forward base in silence, Riza still digesting the realities of being a sniper while Rebecca had lapsed into an uncharacteristic quietness. They were almost all the way back when a figure jumped out in front of them.

"Becky!"

Riza's hand flew to her Nagant revolver before she recognised the figure as the boy who had leapt on her the first time she had showed up at the 39th Headquarters. The boy clearly seemed to have forgotten her as he bounced up and down with excitement.

"Major Armstrong has sent me with a message for you, Sergeant Becky! Very important message, time sensitive..."

Rebecca made hushing sounds, her eyes smiling.

"What is the message, Selim?"

The boy calmed somewhat but he continued to bob slightly on his heels.

"Major Armstrong says that Major Raven's company have trapped some fascists in the old bakery on Markov Street but they need your help. There is a fascist sniper!"

"Really? Then we should head to Markov. Do you know the way?" Rebecca asked. Selim nodded earnestly. Rebecca smiled and turned to Riza.

"Come on. You should see this."

Major Armstrong was already waiting for them at the bakery along with two more members of his sniper unit; a serious young woman with short dark hair and a blonde man who seemed to be barely twenty. Beside them was the largest rifle that Riza had ever seen; more than a head taller than any of them bar the Major if stood on end. Major Raven was standing just behind, a grey-haired old man with wizened Kazakh features, ordering his troops around with casual ease. As the sniper and her student approached, the Major stood and waved them over with his paddle-like hands.

"Sergeant Catalina and Ms... Riza, it is good that the boy found you," he rumbled. "We have reached an impasse with our German adversaries; they are trapped in the floor above us but have the stairways covered with machineguns. Major Raven has already lost a dozen men trying to displace them from their position."

"Maybe he was hoping they would run out of bullets before he ran out of bodies," the short-haired woman snorted quietly and the Major gave her a sharp look before continuing the briefing.

"He has requested that we find a position where the Germans are in easy view and remove their gunners while he makes another assault. The apartment complex to the south would be perfect however Major Raven has warned me of a German sniper covering the street. We will need to deal with him before we can render support to our comrades." He checked his watch and then turned back to Riza and Rebecca.

"Find Comrade Riza a rifle and prepare yourselves. The German sniper does not seem unskilled."

To Riza's surprise, it was the serious looking woman who volunteered to help arm their squad's newest member. She introduced herself as Sergeant Maria Ross and made a careless gesture towards her partner, the young blonde man.

"That layabout there is Private Brosh..." she dismissed, leading to an indignant squawk from the offended party. She flashed a savage smile at the complaining man which silenced him at once. "We operate the anti-tank rifle," she explained, gesturing at the huge rifle with rather more reverence then she did her comrade. Riza paled slightly, both at the weapon's size and the possible implications of its presence.

"You don't think that the Germans... the fascists have a panzer?" she asked. The rifle was certainly large and powerful but it was no artillery piece. Even if it could pierce a panzer's armour, how much damage could it possibly do?

Ross shrugged nonchalantly and motioned for them to move away from the group.

"The fascists certainly have panzers but I do not think they are committing them to the city proper," she mused. "It is far too close for them to be much use. But this rifle is pretty good for taking out other snipers; it'll punch straight through anything our fascist friend chooses to cower behind, even concrete."

As she spoke, she wove deftly through the crowd of milling troopers towards a makeshift aid station. A group of men lay on makeshift beds, clutching bandaged wounds while a rather nervous looking man tended to them. Sergeant Ross exchanged a few quick words with the medic and he pointed towards a pile of discarded equipment. Riza was swiftly handed a rifle and a pouch filled with loose cartridges.

Riza nodded and was considering separating them when Private Brosh ran over.

"The Major has got the brief," he hissed to Ross, who gave a curt nod of understanding. They hurried back to Major Armstrong and found him deep in discussion with one of Raven's men. At their approach, the huge man excused himself and gave them an appraising stare. Riza shrank involuntarily from his gaze, clutching at her newly issued rifle. He seemed satisfied however as he removed a notebook and a stub of a pencil.

"According to our comrade, the German sniper is somewhere in this apartment building here," the Major explained, sketching a map with surprising skill and speed. "We can either try and dare him into exposing himself and let Sergeant Ross or Sergeant Catalina take a shot or we can go around and try and sneak up behind him." A wandering line was drawn around some of the other nearby buildings and behind the apartment complex.

"First one," Ross and Rebecca said in near perfect unison. Brosh seemed about to argue but thought better of it. The Major nodded solemnly.

"Very well. Sergeant Ross will set up in the front section of the bakery, near the counter. It should give you a good view without being too exposed. Private Brosh and Comrade Riza will go with her. Sergeant Catalina will be with me. We will be the distraction."

If Rebecca had any qualms about being bait, she hid them well. Riza swallowed and followed the awkward duo of Ross and Brosh as they slung their oversized rifle between them and lugged it to the Major's ordered position. The final stretch was done on her belly, crawling like a primordial creature making its first steps onto land. Broken glass and concrete shards dug into her palms through the thick rags Ross ordered her to wrap around her hands. But Riza was not about to argue. Having seen what Rebecca had inflicted on the Germans an hour earlier, she was not eager to find herself under a sniper's crosshairs.

The position was half outside of the bakery building, concealed in the shadow of a pile of rubble from the sagging ceiling. The gun was manoeuvred into place with not inconsiderable skill on Ross' part and an unexpected show of physical strength from Brosh. Riza felt distinctly useless as she pointed her own weapon aimlessly at the building the Major had drawn. It was a large apartment complex in dull sandstone, ugly and utilitarian like a lot of modern buildings. A German bomb had destroyed a large chunk of the left side, causing the corner to collapse slightly. Most of the windows were without glass.

"Alright... not even two hundred metres," Ross murmured as she dialled in the numbers on her rifle's sights. Brosh removed a pair of battered binoculars from an equally battered leather case and scanned the hollow windows of the apartment building. There was a long silence, punctuated by the distant crack of rifles and undercut by the omnipresent rumble of artillery.

A rifle discharged, far closer. There was a pause and then another shot. Riza wondered whether or not that was the distraction Major Armstrong had mentioned. Nothing seemed to happen. Riza stared at the building, eyes straining for the tell-tale reflection of light off of a lens or the orange flash of a rifle firing. Long minutes passed. No-one spoke.

Out of the corner of her eye, Riza could see a figure in a Soviet uniform dash across the road in a half crouch. It was Rebecca. She was almost entirely across the road when a rifle crack rang out and she fell. Brosh and Ross both turned to her collapsed body in horror but Riza's eyes were still fixed on the building. She had seen the flash but pinpointing it was hard when all the windows looked much the same and she was trying desperately not to look at the unmoving body of the bubbly sniper.

"There!" Riza hissed. Ross tore her eyes from her friend and pressed her face to the sights of her rifle, grim determination etched into her features.

"Where?" she asked with forced calm.

"See the section where the roof collapsed?" Riza counted quickly. "He is just to the left and one floor down."

The long barrel of the rifle shifted slightly and then was still for a moment. When it fired, it was with such a noise that Riza wondered whether or not she ought to reconsider her prior judgement that the rifle was not an artillery piece. In the enclosed space, it certainly was enough to deafen her. Brosh fiddled with his binoculars and checked the window.

"Blood," he said simply. Anti-tank rifles were hardly the type of weapons to cause flesh-wounds. He put down the binoculars and they all turned back to their fallen comrade. Who was no longer there.

"Don't look so glum," a familiar bouncy voice intoned behind them. "Bullets travel faster than sound. If someone falls over _after_ you hear the shot..."

The Major was overjoyed to find her alive, Ross was furious at the recklessness and Brosh fitted uneasily between the two. Riza was content to stand on the outside of their familial embrace but found herself dragged in anyway. It was warm but not unpleasantly so. At last, they broke up and the Major gave Riza a vigorous pat on the back that almost sent her sprawling.

"You have quite the Hawk's Eye, Comrade Riza," he beamed at her.

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><p><strong>German Terms<strong>

Panzer - German word for tank. In this story, it will usually refer to the Panzerkampfwagen IV, the mainstay of Nazi Germany's Panzer Divisions during the mid to late war. German panzers were typically characterised (especially at this point) by high quality guns and experienced crews

Wehrmacht - the Nazi German ground forces

Hauptsturmführer - a rank of the SS roughly equivalent to Captain (or Hauptmann) in the Wehrmacht

Waffen-SS - the armed wing of the SS, the Nazi German state security service. Generally considered elite troops, they were also widely despised by the Wehrmacht and the Allies alike for their ruthless methods, persistent habit of usurping Wehrmacht authority and complicity in the vast majority of the Nazi's warcrimes

**Russian Terms**

T-34 - a mass produced Soviet medium tank and widely considered one of the best designs of the war. While less well armed than the German panzers and let down by a lack of experienced crews and radios, it was incredibly easy to produce and possessed slightly superior speed (especially during the winter) and frontal armour to the German designs.

Chyort - Russian expletive loosely equivalent to "damn"

Nagant - the standard sidearm of the Russian and Soviet armed forces.

Mosin - the standard rifle of the Russian and Soviet armed forces. Formally known as the Mosin-Nagant (hence the potential confusion with the revolver).

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><p>~0\~

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><p>Well... I did promise some combat this time around and this chapter has plenty. Kimblee gets a section all to himself because he's a major antagonist (and he is <em>so<em> fun to write) but do not expect it to be a regular thing. Roy and Riza are still the primary characters and will be for the duration of this fic. For anyone who asks whether or not this story is Royai, I am not sure how to respond. Unless it is not already obvious, there is not a big scope for romance within my premise. That being said, they _will_ have meaningful interactions beyond trying to kill each other. I'd say more but that would spoil it, wouldn't it?


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